


hold me close (tonight and always)

by dimplesum



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Sex, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Other, Post-Time Skip, Roommates, Suggestive Themes, alcohol consumption, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29626800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimplesum/pseuds/dimplesum
Summary: You aren’t sure how long you can conceal that you remember all your drunken nights with Suna, your childhood friend, nor can you bear the thought of getting your feelings rejected by him because you’ve fancied him forfar too long.It’s only a matter of time that he’s going to find out — andhow are you supposed to fare with that?
Relationships: Inarizaki Volleyball Club & Reader, Miya Osamu & Reader, Suna Rintarou/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	hold me close (tonight and always)

“Wake up, loser,” Suna drawls with an amused tone laced in his voice, the smooth rumble of his voice shaking the bed. He raps his knuckles against your forehead gently, a fond smile on his face. “Is that hangover getting to you?”

You let a discontented groan as you pry your eyes open to the piercing sunlight, feeling how your slumber falls upon you so heavily. Rays of light pierce through the thin curtains, shooting through the slits of the curtain where they fail to shield you and making you squint from the overwhelming pressure. Your bedroom has turned into a golden haven, the kind where everything is tinted with the superficiality of sunlight glossing over it, and copper shadows of the autumn trees sway across your bedroom in some trance. Head throbbing, you roll over to face your childhood friend, meeting his insightful copper eyes. You’re used to sharing beds with him, having grown up with the routine of falling asleep together from a tiring night. Twisting your hip and picking up your legs after one another in a graceless arc, you feel a rippling ache between your legs mid-air, making them buckle slightly, and you let out a low hiss from your lips. The sensation causes your eyes to snap open, helping to awaken your senses and come back to reality.

_What did you do last night to feel this way?_

“You okay?” Suna asks, his gaze on you in an instant. He’s acting a little different, and for the life of you, you cannot figure out the reason why he’s acting like this. Usually, he just laughs whenever you’re in pain — being the sadist he is, but this time around, his shoulders aren’t shaking, and his mouth isn’t embroidered with laughter. “You had a rough night, remember? You drank a ton.”

Studying him, concern radiates from his facial expression, his lips pursed in hesitation. There’s something eating at him, you can tell by the way he gently pulls his lower lip with his teeth and gnaws with the slightest graze, revealing a shiny layer of saliva. Suna has always been able to pick up on your every tell, his keen senses developed from spending time with you ever since your childhood days, and so are you able to pick apart his actions and motives. Today’s not different because you two have learned to read each other like an open book: flagging, bookmarking, dog-earing every little insignificant and significant aspect buried between each line and word of every page.

As you stare at each other, still stuck in your morning daze and struggling to fight your hangovers, you realize with a start to what he’s referring to. You’re very quite sure that if you go straight to the mirror in front of your bed, you’ll notice the scattered pattern of bruises trailing from your thighs down to your calves, but thank goodness for the blanket to obscure them all from your vision. Very carefully, you make sure to play dumb because you know what happened last night, and this could _ruin_ your friendship and tear all the years you’ve spent together apart because of one night.

“I must have had drunk a ton because my head’s killing me,” you muse, grimacing at the throbbing sensation. You throw him a glance, replacing the grimace for a beatific smile to throw him off. “I don’t remember anything, to be honest.”

Of course, you’re familiar with the fact that Suna is a heartbreaker, the kind of heartbreaker that breaks your heart before you have the chance of loving him. He always complained about fangirls evading his space throughout high school, throwing them toward Atsumu and Osamu for the sake of his amusement. As you look at him, you observe his inner turmoil — to tell you or not, and it’ll determine whether you’ll continue playing this facade because _it’s not worth it to lose him._ You would rather love him from afar rather than not be able to love him again. If he truly likes you, he would say it right now, but looking at his eyes — _oh, his eyes, the color of lemons and everything divine,_ you know he doesn’t, a strange space growing between you two as you endure the silence.

“You reek of alcohol,” you mutter sourly as he presses himself against you. He radiates that smell of alcohol and freshly cut grass, an unusual combination that you’ve grown accustomed to for no particular reason. “Take a shower or something, you fiend. I swear, you drank so much last night, enough to beat Atsumu.”

“My goal has been achieved — to drink more than Miya Atsumu,” Suna says dryly, rolling his eyes at your comment. 

(The running joke between you two is that Atsumu would drink a lot of alcohol — if that were possible, seeing the fact that he always gets drunk without even taking much of a sip.)

Suna has always been good at holding his liquor, but this time around, he was _wasted_ in comparison to you. Biting your lip to suppress your thoughts, you don’t say anything further, not wanting to remind him of what _exactly_ occurred last night. It’s still a blur to you, the kind of blur where shades of watercolor paint bleed into one another, and yet, it’s so clear, every single detail of your night with your childhood friend etched into your mind with a pencil that can’t be erased, despite being buried underneath all this watercolor paint. 

The color you remember most is the crimson of the wine-dark sea. All your memories of last night are drowned in a rich crimson. You see it on his lips like Cupid’s bow, ready to strike upon your heart. If, perchance, he were to let go of that arrow, you would let it sink into your skin and listen to your heart sputter and gush from the pain because _it’s all worth it for him_. Underneath your white button-down shirt, you’re certain that if your fingers slipped under to pop off the buttons, you would reveal all the wine-stained kisses scattered across your collarbone like a bouquet of roses. 

If you turn your head a little more, you’re quite sure that you could barely _kiss_ him with your close proximity, shoulders brushing against each other. _It’s Suna,_ you remind yourself, _viewing you as nothing more than a very, very close friend_ because the two of you have known each other for a very, very long time, _so it would be crazy to ruin your friendship because of one stolen night together._

“Shower,” you say pointedly, pushing him away from you and making him sigh mockingly at your strictness.

Letting out a relieved breath when he disappears into the bathroom across the hallway from your room, you find solace in bathing in the morning sunlight. It caresses your skin, gold dancing in your vision with rays of glittering diamonds cascading into your room. You’re sitting in a mess of blankets clinging onto your body, begging you to go back to sleep, Despite your inner thoughts, you roll yourself out of bed miraculously. There’s a mirror sitting in front of your bed, and you notice — _oh, fuck, you can’t let him see this._

Your shirt pools down at your thighs, and if you lift your shirt up a little more, you can see how those love bites inch across your skin. The ghost of the memory of his lips brushing against your skin so delicately sends shivers down your spine. It’s such a contrast to your current state right now, the air conditioner sweeping across your skin in cool waves that make your eyes flutter shut. You trace the bruises blossoming on your thighs like they’re splashes of watercolor, staining a blank canvas. You grimace slightly, remembering how your cries made you descend into ecstasy. _Fuck,_ him not remembering any part of your drunken night together makes your head dizzy with frustration. 

Your phone vibrates against your bed stand, forcing you to fall sprawled across the bed to receive it. Without needing to look at the caller, you already know who it is, biting down a smirk as you pick up the phone, rolling onto your side. In the background, the sound of Suna showering allows you to keep everything from last night hidden away from him as you talk to another one of your friends.

“You finally awake, sweetheart?” Osamu asks, evidently working in the kitchen by the sound of his cooking knife clapping against the counter as he slices up ingredients for the day. His breath is hot against the speaker, meaning that he’s resting the phone between his ear and shoulder. “I was getting worried that you were kidnapped or something.”

“Oh, shut up,” you tell him with a laugh. “You’re the one who was supposed to keep tabs on me, so I wouldn’t get too drunk.”

“Don’t complain and tell me that you didn’t get a good fuck out of all of it,” he retorts wryly.

“This is so fucking awkward between me and him,” you say, a whine breaking your voice. “I know he doesn’t like me in that way.”

“How do you know?” he prods, and you know he’s smirking on the other end, finally stopping his work to just tease you. “He could —”

“Don’t give me false hope,” you bemoan, beating against the mattress so loudly that you’re almost certain that Suna can hear you. “We’ve known each other for so long, and don’t you think that he would have made a move on me by now?”

“Welcome to Miya Onigiri’s Unofficial Love Service where we charge ten thousand yen for every time a hopeless pining customer comes our way,” Osamu intones dryly. “Please leave your contact information after the _beep,_ so we can send your invoice of a million yen to you for our services.”

“Fuck you,” you hum but laugh at his humor. 

“You know that you would be in debt to me if I charged you for my services.”

Osamu has never been one to approach emotions in the sense that he has never had the need to understand people emotionally. With his twin, he’s able to sense things in an instant, knowing all of his tells, which makes it hard for him to understand others, but with you, your friendship has always been easygoing. He’s always the one you go to when it comes to Suna Rintarou, the center of your whole life.

“You’ll get there with him,” Osamu assures you after your laughter dies in your throat, his quiet resolve enough for you to hold on to your feelings for Suna. “Don’t be afraid of telling him.”

You promise him, but you know that you’re afraid, so damn afraid of telling him and letting all those feelings flood out the gates of your heart, because Suna already has the keys and could easily throw them away as he liked, and you would still love him nonetheless.

.

.

.

_Doors slamming. Backs hitting the mattress. Peeling clothes off. Breathing out each other’s names._

It happens again.

And again. 

And again.

You don’t know where his kisses start and where they end because they lull you into delirium, soft and lazy with every intention to make the most of your time together. He has this way of meeting your eyes with his hooded gaze, pulling you into him with his watchful expression. Sometimes, he talks, and sometimes, he doesn’t, but it’s all the same in the end as you end up in his bed the next morning.

Whenever you get time, there’s a team reunion for Inarizaki’s former volleyball team, and you’re unofficially invited, being a friend to all of them of some sorts. All of you meet up together at a restaurant of a selected person’s choice, just to eat together and talk _(and drink; it’s an unspoken rule that the restaurant choice has to offer alcohol)._ The last time you tried partying at someone’s house, you all ended up trashing Shinsuke’s house, and as the consequence, you had to clean it up (and split the pay for the damages).

It’s probably one of the only times where Suna and you get the chance to drink, not really having the chance to because of your busy university schedule and his hectic schedule as a professional athlete. Somehow, the two of you always end up drunk, letting the alcohol lead your actions and do everything that you _can’t_ do sober. You’re surprised by how many times you can use alcohol and memory loss to excuse your actions in the morning and how many times Suna accepts it so easily.

(You could have _sworn_ that you heard an “I love you” fall from his lips breathlessly one night when you gave him the sweetest and most tender kiss you’ve ever given someone, filled with longing and yearning for something that you weren’t sure about.

But _he’s drunk,_ and drunk people make stupid decisions.)

“You’ve been acting strange,” Suna declares one morning, sending a sharp look your way as he makes himself coffee, his back leaning against the countertop. “Classes too hard?”

You’re trying to hide your limp, the way that your walk has turned into some sort of little bounce meant to alleviate the ache that strains your body, but he’s good at catching every little detail, being the observant person he is. He has always known when you’re off, and it’s no surprise that this isn’t an exception. You have never been good at hiding things from him because you’re used to sharing everything with him. You angle your body away from him, so he can’t see how his marks trail across your body like an artist putting a watermark in bold on their masterpiece.

“It’s exam period,” you admit, closing your eyes with fatigue coloring your eyes in dark spots. You’re sure that it’s because you’re still recovering from last night, but you don’t want to admit that you, in fact, remember everything. “I’m going to die from all the exams this fall.”

“That’s why you should have joined me in high school to do volleyball,” Suna hums in amusement, poking at your exposed stomach when you bend down to get frozen waffles out of the freezer and making you smack his hand away. His fingers are cold, the kind of chill that contrasts with your warmth that has accumulated from your slumber. “Pull down your shirt. You’re going to get a cold, you know.”

“I’m lazy, and volleyball requires exercise,” you tell him with a huff while you put your waffles into the oven and press the timer. You’re about to collapse onto the floor, and you curse your lack of endurance because you probably look like an idiot right now, using the counter as a means to stand up. As a university student, you doubt that you’re going to age _that_ quickly. Remembering the chill of his fingers against your skin, you glower. “You’re colder than me, so you should watch your health, too.”

“Says the person who always catches colds first,” he says pointedly. While your gaze isn’t on him, focused on your waffles and waiting to pop them out of the oven, your eyesight is suddenly smothered with some kind of black cotton, and you sputter out obscenities out of confusion until your vision finally returns. “If you’re not going to protect yourself from getting sick, I’ll do it for you.”

His hoodie’s freshly washed, and just as you’re about to complain that you have your own hoodies to wear, you realize that you have no room to talk back because all of your hoodies are in the laundry. He pats your head with an indulgent smirk curling upon his lips. Due to his wide frame, the hoodie stretches comfortably against your skin. Nestling your face into the material, his scent is scattered across the clothing, the threads practically radiating with the smell of fresh grass. It matches his style, the kind of plain clothing that instantly looks like designer clothing once worn by him.

“I feel like I could use the sleeves as weapons,” you muse as you make your arms retreat from the sleeves and fling them through the air as you swing around the kitchen in circles.

“You’re just going to get dizzy from spinning around like that,” he warns, but you ignore him in favor of humoring yourself, forgetting the fact that you’re still sore from yesterday’s activities. “It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Try me,” you taunt, laughing freely.

With just your luck, you’re about to hit one of the sharp corners of the wall that marks the outside of the kitchen, and even though you try to dig your heels to slow yourself to a stop, you find yourself spiraling out of control. At that moment, you regret your words, praying that you don’t get a concussion with how fast you’re about to hit that sharp corner and dent it. Instead of hitting the wall and splitting your head open like you anticipated, you bowl yourself into something slightly less hard but still firm enough to make you grimace at the impact. Looking upward, you see that it’s Suna to the rescue, rolling his eyes at your nonsense with his whole figure shielding you from the wall.

“I told you, you idiot, that would happen,” he says with a groan, shoulders falling down with relief that you’re at least safe. “That’s why you don’t horse around like that, or else you’ll get hurt.”

His eyes are narrowed, crinkled with bits of frustration, but you know that he doesn’t mean bad about anything. Averting your eyes, you know that it’s partially your fault. Wrapping your arms around him, you can feel him stiffen for a moment and then relax under your touch. You can sense some lingering tension, but it’s slowly being snuffed out with your presence. Even though you know that you should get out of this position and eat your waffles that probably are growing soggy by the second, you can’t help but melt into his arms, your shape complimenting his so well.

“Thank you for saving me,” you sing, letting a smile grace your lips. “I wouldn’t know what I would do without you.”

“You would probably collapse without me, knowing you,” he remarks, and you know it’s true — how much you’ve come to rely on him over the years. “That’s why we have each other.”

“I’m just your slave when you need to get food,” you bounce back, remembering all the times he forced you to get food for his team whenever they had late-night practices.

For a moment, you watch his eyes widen, the kind of action that wouldn’t mean much if you didn’t know Suna, but you do know him, and nothing usually takes him by surprise, unless it’s completely unexpected. His grin slips from his mouth, the ends of his mouth transforming into a frown that makes your heart twist into knots. You follow his gaze, tipping your head down to notice a love bite right smack on your collarbone from your shirt sliding off your shoulders, exposed for the whole world — _more like him_ — to see.

 _Shit,_ you realize as your expression changes immediately; you’ve been so careful to conceal every single mark you’ve received from him during your nights with him because you know that he’s far too attentive for his own good. Trying to find an excuse, you’re stumbling, unable to let any words slip out of your mouth because you can’t lie to him, not like _this._

“I —” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You remember, didn’t you?” he states flatly, biting his lip harshly as his eyes roam across your unfiltered expression filled with panic and worry. _He’s misinterpreting you,_ you think in frustration, your tongue stuck in place, and you’re speechless, internally freaking out because _you can’t let him slip from your hands._ “I get why you pretended that you didn’t remember.” He flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, hiding his true feelings as he backs away from you, releasing his tender embrace, and you wish that you could stay in that position with him. “I just wish that you could have said something before.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” you say, your words like a pair of butterfly wings beating softly into the air. “I’m sorry.”

They’re all the wrong words, and you know he won’t believe you when you want to say that you love him. That you didn’t think things would end up playing out like this where he discovers that you remember every drunken night with him. That you were only _scared_ that he didn’t return your feelings. All your thoughts are desperate regrets because you realize that you should have said something earlier and told him of your feelings. His face is laced with hurt from the lackluster sadness painted in layers of acrylic paint peeling off the canvas from years of aging away.

(But you know that it isn’t fine, that you have to stop playing around at some point.)

.

.

.

“Something happened between you and Suna?” Ojiro asks after taking a chug out of his beer, giving you a sideways glance.

Only being a few weeks into Suna avoiding you like the plague, you grimace, the memory still a fresh wound in your mind. All your feelings are dripping from how Ojiro has unintentionally wrenched a knife into your whole body, everything unwanted bubbling out. Your apartment doesn’t feel like home anymore, not with him making sure that you can’t be within a few meters of him. It’s hard to breathe in the same room, your lungs clogging up every time you see him. _You should have confessed to him before it was too late,_ a voice tells you, but you dismiss it because it’s the _past._ Your problem now is to figure out how to deal with it because Suna is good at avoiding conflict _and_ resolving conflict; all in all, he’s not interested in emotionally taxing or detrimental situations.

“Love troubles,” Osamu explains, elbowing the volleyball player with a wane grin. He turns to you, inclining his head. “Keep your head up, you’re not here just because you’re _his_ friend.”

Ojiro’s the type to keep opening unwanted wounds and everything bad. You know that he doesn’t mean anything by it, wanting to help out his friends, but you also know that you can’t handle it tonight, not when you know that Suna’s eyes are burning into you like a newly smithed sword ready to cut into you. Osamu shoots him a warning look, making Ojiro nod.

Nonetheless, his eyes carry warmth in them as he claps you on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.”

“Or I can talk to him,” Osamu offers.

“He’s going to take a go at me when we get home if he knows that I’ve told other people about this,” you complain, waving away their help because Suna likes his privacy, keeping his business _away_ from other people. You notice that he’s busy comforting a crying Kitsuke who seems to be the _crying_ kind of drunk, sobbing into the night over everyone for no reason. “I’ll take a breather, but thank you.”

The city night is peaceful and forthcoming, the evening air wrapping around you like a gown from a runway show. Against the night sky, constellations twinkle, winding across the canvas of silky darkness. Your eyes appreciate the sight with how individually these stars stand and yet how united they are with one another. These glittering diamonds are almost so close that you could pluck them out of the sky and roll them between your fingers, each sharpened edge sitting comfortably against your soft skin, and they are so far that you have to strain yourself against the balcony.

You’re scared of falling too easily into this pattern with Suna. It has been like this for so long, pining endlessly for him as your heart drops into your stomach with his every touch and caress. You never would have thought that you would be _scared_ of what you have with him. It’s not friendship anymore, and the lines are _blurring,_ playing against the edge of the blur of starlight where when you squint, you can’t see the body of the star but rather the remnants of the rays fading into the black, empty nothingness of the night.

If you accept this unhealthy pattern, you’ll never truly be with him.

“Hey.”

This single word, _this one word,_ is like a shooting star, dropping into the abyss of silence, uttered lowly and quietly by Suna; if you hadn’t been listening carefully, you’re very sure that you wouldn’t be able to hear him at all, his presence like a ghost haunting you.

“Hey,” you return, leaning against the balcony _away_ from him and internally wincing at the shortness of your tone.

“I’m sorry for being an idiot,” he says finally after a long silence, “especially with not listening you out. Osamu dragged me into his shop the other day and knocked some sense into me.”

“I told him not to do anything, that bastard,” you say under your breath, more to yourself, but it piques his amusement. 

“I really like you, and I’m not good at words,” he confesses, his words falling quickly from his lips, and they’re the words that you’ve always wanted to hear, strung together in a beautiful sentence that makes your heart glow. “I’m so _fucking_ sorry for hurting you because I should have definitely made myself listen to you. I know that you’re not that type of person.”

“You are really an idiot,” you say fondly, succumbing to his words instantaneously because _you’ve wanted this for far too long._

You know that you’ll eventually talk it out at home, but not right now, not when you’re about to get back the friend you’ve always had in your life and so much more than that. You’ll thank Osamu later when you get the chance and promise him to treat him to a Michelin star restaurant sometime when you save up enough money.

As if he’s reading your thoughts, he promises aloud, “We’ll talk about this. I’ve waited too long for this to happen.”

“Too long?” you repeat, turning to him in surprise. A smile spreads across your face at his words. “When was it for you?”

“Probably right before senior high started,” he muses. “I gave you my jacket after New Year’s, and you looked cute in it. And you?”

His line of reasoning is so simple, but you can’t help but smile because you remember that exact moment when he rested it across your shivering figure, scolding you for not wearing more layers.

“When I first gave you a tour when you transferred,” you ponder. “You were really cute with that hairstyle of yours.”

“Let’s not talk about my elementary school haircut,” he says, groaning at the memory of his shoulder-length hair, far too tangled and messy for his own good (and his mother had complained so much in front of the whole class). “I missed you lots. Not talking to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Before you can respond, his mouth swallows all the words about to fly from your tongue.

His lips are slow, sucking your nape sensually and causing a moan to flutter out of your mouth as you arch your back, his other hand supporting your back. Mouth stained with your wine-dark lipstick, he looks like a vampire, all of his sins occurring because of you. You’re sure that if someone takes a wrong turn, you would be very embarrassed at the scene they will arrive, especially in this position where a devilish smirk lines Suna’s mouth at your response to his touch. For a professional volleyball player, he’s not very concerned about his public image at all, being very languid in his pace as he laps at your skin, your shirt finally crooked enough to expose your skin, newly healed from weeks ago. It looks like he has no plans of letting these marks fade, but you know, if you walk back into the restaurant, Osamu’s going to tease you like hell, and Ojiro’s going to wear that suggestive, all-knowing smile on his face, and that’s not something you plan on enduring.

You push him away slightly, ignoring his complaints (“How about I kiss you somewhere where no one can see it?” “Oh, shut up”) while you clasp your hands around his neck, swaying slightly to the faint beat of the music from the restaurant and pressing your forehead against his. Of course, you two don’t really know how to dance, besides waddling in an awkward circle with your feet shuffling around each other and hoping that you won’t step on one another, but it works _somehow._

“I’m happy,” you murmur, relishing in the fact that you’re with him at this very moment. You avert your eyes as you note his gaze tracing your figure. “I’m so happy to be with you.”

Your prompt, blunt confession leads him to widen his eyes, not used to this side of you because for almost the entirety of your lives, you two have always been _friends._ All of this is new territory, the kind where every step is ever so careful, filled with trepidation and anxiety because you can say things that you would have never said if you stayed as _friends._ Everything you’ve ever wanted to say can be spilled from your lips, and you don’t need to keep it all in. Suna’s not good at words; you know this because he always took forever during your high school Japanese classes, etching every single kanji character so _painstakingly_ with thought _._ On the other hand, he’s very good at actions, and his step toward you causes you to lean into his figure.

“So am I,” he whispers, embracing you with his wide frame, the stars in the whole galaxy beaming upon you.

**Author's Note:**

> >:DD hiya hiya !!! i hope you enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it <33 i really didn't expect this to go so out of control, although it's suna <3 so it's forgivable LOL i'm much more active on tumblr as @dimplesum, and i actively post there (i'm cross-posting here for the sake of archiving my work), so please check that out if you want to see more of my writing as i go, or if you want to talk to me !!!


End file.
